


what is an island without the sea

by kenmaniacc



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Haikyuu BigBang 2020, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, MAYHAPS? idk a lot of flashbacks, Non-Linear Narrative, Relationship Study, They are honestly just dumb as shit, stuck in quarantine together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenmaniacc/pseuds/kenmaniacc
Summary: Tooru watches Iwaizumi’s back, noticing the broader lines. He thinks about how he has grown stronger and wonders what Hajime would do if he stopped walking.Would Iwaizumi stop too? Would his steps end in haste, immovable and certain in his wait for him? Or would he keep on his path without a glance over his shoulder?The thought is entertained for less than a second before Tooru tucks it away. He seals it in a casket at the back of his mind, wants to lock it up and throw the key out. Unfortunately, he knows it’s not so easy — and he knows he isn’t strong enough.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74





	what is an island without the sea

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been in production since last year and it’s the biggest and most scary thing i’ve ever written. i just wanted to write something about that tension between you and other person when you know something has to change between you, but no one wants to start/knows how to start the conversation.
> 
> i hope this is somewhat cathartic to whoever reads it, and i hope you will enjoy the ending as much as i did.
> 
> for those who want to avoid the smut, although very brief, it starts in “he doesn’t mind because every little whisper” and goes until “when Iwaizumi can finally open”! 
> 
> my biggest thank you to auri, who made an amazing piece of art for this fanfic and was a great person to work with during this HQBigBang, and to willow and yun for their amazing beta services and help. y’all saved my brain from melting many times and didn’t let me give up in the middle of the way! 
> 
> ANYWAYS, hope you have a great reading and thank you! see you at the end!

Clammy hands open and close on a fist, their owner not too conscious of the motion. It’s an automatic reflex that occurs when Oikawa is faced with the need to move.

As anxiety laces around his spine, head heavy from exertion, his feet adjoin the motion by tapping against the floor of the airplane. It’s a melody that dissolves into a sudden halt as it’s finally his turn to get up.

As he hoists the carry-on bag over his shoulder and adjusts the mask over his mouth one last time, Tooru fights the urge to run. 

What is he running from?

What is he running to? 

Just a couple more of the many questions he doesn’t have an answer for. 

It’s only after he reaches the arrival gate that the now Argentinian forces himself to stop. He was moving decidedly faster than the people around him, to a point of gathering some attention. 

He vaguely remembers the breathing exercises that he should do in situations such as this, but the long intake of air doesn’t temper down the wires short-circuiting on his brain while it attempts the mental gymnastics necessary to fully process life after a twenty-nine-hour flight.

To fully process being in Japan again.

He is barely aware of the small whine that leaves his lips. Only after pressing the heel of his wrists against his eyes doesTooru register that the sound actually came from him.

He feels some sort of relief over it for the simple fact that his voice is _still there_. 

It’s a short lived one.

It’s shocking, he concedes as he looks around. It’s shocking to see people so _scattered_ , cornered into themselves even if Narita is not so full at 4 am. 

_Perhaps it was a mistake to come back._

Though the thought is fleeting, it causes his stomach to churn. Tooru shakes his head, chestnut hair flicking left and right. His hair is shorter now and, granted the flight, way messier than usual. He pushes the fringe back in an attempt to clear his vision, get a better hold of himself before he tries to catch a cab or something.

But then, of course, he looks up, and there _he_ is, an answer to all the questions Tooru hasn’t even asked himself yet.

Like a meteorite caught in a gravity field, the man heads to him, and Tooru, as still as the Earth itself, remains in place.

He simply accepts the fate of the collision with a ghost of a smile, emotions threatening to tip over as he feels his chest swollen with affection and warmth when they finally make contact. It’s an embrace, tight and with a hint of desperation that makes him cling to the other for a second too long as a whole galaxy of emotion blooms under his skin.

Even the dull pounding on his skull and at the back of his ears, from piled-up tension, slips out of him a bit. The soft brush of Iwaizumi’s fingers on his lower back lets Tooru relax, skin ablaze with the gentleness that it holds.

Warm tawny eyes dusted with molten honey flecks are drawn up to juniper greens with hints of gold and this time, when Tooru inhales, he really breathes. 

Again short lived peace because Iwaizumi flicks his forehead.

“Ouch!!! Iwa-chan?! What was that for?!” He rubs the slightly sore spot to will the stingy sensation away.

With childish penchant, it’s no surprise that Oikawa made a point to pull down his face mask for merely a second, just so Iwaizumi would be able to see the pout on his lips and his distinguished betrayed expression. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t even flinch, of course. He blinks nonchalantly, but the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are a telltale sign of the hidden smile that certainly dances upon his lips under the bandana wrapped around his head. Anyone else would look at least half idiotic with such an accessory, but not him.

  
It’s kind of hot and that makes Tooru a bit mad.

“You look terrible.” he lies, biting his lower lip.

Instead of answering right away, Hajime grabs the handle of Tooru’s suitcase, endearment pouring out of him as he pulls Tooru’s facemask up for him. His gloved fingers, index and middle, press gently at the sides of the setter’s nose and he has to swallow down the sound that wants to escape at the back of his throat.

“Well, you look like shit.” Iwaizumi says, only half serious, as his fingers tremble to touch more, doing nothing to appease Oikawa’s inner turmoil. There’s a frustrated little rasp that comes from Tooru’s mouth and he lets his head fall to Iwaizumi’s shoulder for a second. 

“You are terrible to me, can’t you treat me right for a minute here? You haven’t seen me in _four months_.” He _begs_ and Iwaizumi scoffs.

It takes exactly thirty seconds for him to surrender to Tooru’s demeanor, letting out a chuckle that the setter feels more than he can hear. Hajime’s fingers tap gently against Tooru’s hip, urging him to move.

“Hah? If you already have complaints to make I’ll just leave you right here. Good luck getting a cab.” But there’s no bite to his words, nor does he actually force Tooru to move away. “Come on…” he insists gently, nose almost brushing Tooru’s hair and Tooru _wants more_.

He wants and wants again. Wants to touch, wants to hug him tighter, wants to latch onto him like a leech, but he holds the thought at arm’s length for when they are alone. 

He mumbles something close to an ‘okay’ and Iwaizumi holds his hand, prompting him to finally walk as he does so himself. 

It’s unsettling, then, how much he missed such a trivial thing as moving together.

All it takes is a quick look to recognize in Hajime’s eyes that same feeling. They both missed the way that Hajime leads and Tooru follows, not a word muttered between them despite the subtle wrench on their heartstrings with every step.

For Tooru, more than walking itself, his feet missed the security that being guided by Hajime provides. 

So much has changed, and yet nothing at all. 

The cold during January is the same, air freezing and unforgiving as they move across the parking lot. What’s different is how Tooru now folds against himself, already wistful of the heat in San Juan, of the valleys and cliffs that are so different from the cosmopolitan and overwhelmingly full city of Tokyo. 

What is the same, is how Iwaizumi walks a few steps ahead of him, still carrying his bag, still holding his hand, still pulling him along. He is unyielding, cutting the wind so Tooru doesn't have to. Like Hermes himself, unbothered by the unforgiving gusts that press against their skin when moving against them. 

Tooru watches Iwaizumi’s back, noticing the broader lines. He thinks about how he has grown stronger and wonders what Hajime would do if he stopped walking.

Would Iwaizumi stop too? Would his steps end in haste, immovable and certain in his wait for him? Or would he keep on his path without a glance over his shoulder?

The thought is entertained for less than a second before Tooru tucks it away. He seals it in a casket at the back of his mind, wants to lock it up and throw the key out.  
  
  
Unfortunately, he knows it’s not so easy — and he knows he isn’t strong enough.

Soon though, Iwaizumi is opening the car door for him, ever the gentleman just like his mother taught him (Tooru would know, he was there) and that distracts Oikawa a bit. Tooru even thinks about making a joke, but it doesn’t come out.

He is tongue-tied, heart hammering against his ribcage while a murmuration of starlings dances across his belly. It’s pure restlessness that only dissolves itself when the athletic trainer takes his place beside him inside the car, after putting the luggage in the back.

It feels like the world stops turning on its axis for a moment, just for them.

They don’t talk. It’s just a competition of masks and gloves being pulled out, backed up by the need to touch, to kiss.

Hajime wins.

His prize is to finally connect flesh with flesh, the fingers of his right hand clutching at the back of Tooru’s neck like a claw and pulling him in. Oikawa even yelps, and Hajime swallows the sound on a quest to quench his thirst, drinking from his presence like a man who hasn’t had a sip of water in months would do once finding an oasis. 

But in his thirst, where teeth bite against the plump lower lip of the setter, he notices that maybe it was all a _mirage_. He is still lost in an arid land, daydreaming about what he wishes for the most, but the motion starts to feel _off_. 

That fire that was burning in Iwaizumi’s stomach fades slowly but surely as the movements of his lips become more pacified, mechanical.

It does not go unnoticed by Oikawa.

The weight of Hajime’s tongue against his seems a bit different. It still evokes memories, a need that resists time and all the barriers that Oikawa himself has raised on many occasions, but it’s colder than the last one shared in the San Juan airport, where they said their last ‘see you later’. It makes ice solidify in the marrow of his bones and yet, he doesn’t let go.

Tooru latches onto him as he wanted to from the moment he saw the athletic trainer at the gate, fingertips brushing against Iwaizumi’s scalp as he grabs a portion of thick silky black hair and surrenders himself to muscle memory. The tip of his tongue traces the roof of Hajime’s mouth then and he feels him shudder, feels Hajime grasp him more firmly as the other’s hand takes hold of his chin, once again pressing their mouths harder. 

Just then, Tooru’s heart quiets in his chest. Just when he opens his eyes and sees Hajime slightly breathless, slightly flushed, already looking at him as if Oikawa is the embodiment of the sun. 

“I missed you.” Hajime breathes against his lips. It sounds like a prayer, an appeal, and even if his stomach churns because he knows he should do more, Tooru resumes hugging him tighter.

“I missed you too,” he mumbles, raw and slightly muffled against Iwaizumi’s shirt.

The embrace is warm, comfortable. It’s his home. And yet, he’s afraid that this might not be enough for Iwaizumi. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Iwaizumi’s house is not what most people would imagine. There’s not much furniture and things seem to be put together for practicality, taking the least amount of space possible.

For anyone who met him, this might mean that Iwaizumi is organized or even a minimalist. For Tooru, it just means that he is trying very hard to be less messy and that he has cleaned the place up for his arrival.

The rest of the car ride was silent although not meaningless. Fighting sleep, Oikawa had leaned against the window after picking the music station; Koda Kumi’s cool timbre ringing loudly in his ears and preventing him from completely drifting into his mind and leaving Iwaizumi alone to drive. 

A smile had broken at the corners of his mouth as he noticed Hajime starting to hum along “Crazy 4 You”. His hand settles naturally over Tooru’s thigh, tapping against it along the rhythm and sometimes simply caressing it.

Tooru automatically wonders if there are new calluses on Iwaizumi’s hands like the ones he has on his own. He wonders if among his thick, spiky ebony strands there are already some grays peaking out, if there are new dishes he learned how to cook and if he still likes to sleep with the window open.

He just wishes to be included in every corner of Hajime’s life, to recognize himself as part of it. With thoughts too scattered around, though, he decides to simply try to enjoy the _now_ and before long, with nostalgia filling their lungs, both Oikawa and Hajime don’t take too long to be singing along the lyrics, completely out of tune. 

It feels distinctly like being a kid again, and just right. 

But the feeling lasts only long enough for them to pick up Tooru’s bags after parking the car at the garage of Iwaizumi’s building, a silence there is not entirely comfortable consuming them. It gets to a point where Oikawa feels an awkward tension bubbling up his spine, right after getting inside the apartment.

Without thinking much, he decides to leave his bag close to the door, and walks to Hajime's room.

Tooru finally allows himself to sit then, deciding to do so at the foot of Iwaizumi’s bed, reading his mom’s text message for the hundredth time.

It doesn’t take too long for Iwaizumi to come to find him, never late on picking up signs of distress coming from Oikawa and his ever working mind. Most times, it’s a welcomed superpower, one that Oikawa has taken advantage of more than he cares to count.

It has worked even six thousand miles and more away. 

Now, it feels just a little bit heavy, as his gaze meets those intense green eyes and he swallows the lump in his throat. 

“What’s wrong?” Hajime asks and crouches right in front of him. His anxieties make his face frown.

There are new expression lines there. Months of stories that Tooru wasn’t lucky enough to see unfold, wasn't present enough to help ease. It always struck him so strongly, to find those almost imperceptible differences in each other after being deprived of physical presence for so long. 

He always thought it would be something he would get used to with time, but it’s not quite true. One choice means losing a thousand others he could’ve made. The one that took him to Argentina stripped him of the one that would make it possible to see Hajime’s face and body affected by time and experience. 

It makes his heart ache in such a way that the reunion is just that much more bittersweet. Yet, instead of voicing any of those thoughts, afraid that his voice would crack, he opts for a half-truth. They roll easier off of Tooru’s tongue.

“It’s nothing —”, he mutters, sounding raspy to his own ears as he lifts a hand, letting the tip of his index finger run across Hajime’s forehead. The effect is immediate, Iwaizumi’s whole being relaxing against his touch, “— just a little change of plans. My mom said that the virus is spreading pretty badly in Sendai, so she told me to stay here for a bit longer, actually.”

“Hmm.” Ever eloquent, that’s all Hajime says, eyes locked on Tooru’s expression as the setter’s hand leaves his skin. He misses the touch immediately, like flowers missing the sun. 

What he yearns for the most though is seeing those eyes without somber thoughts lurking underneath them. 

So he stares. 

He waits patiently, sitting cross-legged in front of Tooru, hinting a smile as he watches a pout slowly form on Oikawa’s perfectly designed lips. 

“What? I— Can I? Stay here that while longer? I didn’t wanna impose without discussing this with you, I know you normally make plans ahead, Iwa-chan.” And just as the words slip through his mouth his eyes avert Hajime’s. 

For a second, no words tumble out of the athletic trainer’s mouth. Something bitter and ugly weighs on his tongue as quiet anger wraps unkindly around his heart. He feels his pulse stutter for a second and looks down, not quite able to hold a sigh from tipping over his lips, and he does his best to at least conceal the expression on his face. 

It’s too early to fight. 

“You talk like having you here is a bother. It’s kind of offending,” he says, licking his lips, the beginnings of his eyebrows raising slightly as he sees Oikawa’s do the same, looking constricted. It doesn’t sit well with him. “I never minded adapting to you, why would I start now? Don’t worry about useless shit.” 

Iwaizumi’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes but Oikawa doesn’t notice as he looks down to face his intertwined fingers laying gently against his legs. It would be funny, if not for the fact that his expression is a carbon copy of Iwaizumi’s. 

Hajime feels his own fingers quiver for a millisecond, memory and habit urging him to reach out, but he holds back if only for this instant. 

Instinct, however, is stronger than his own will, and he ruffles chestnut hair gently before he raises from the floor. He would always do anything to ease Oikawa’s mind from things the other couldn’t change alone. 

“Quit overthinking and go shower, Stinkykawa.” That does the trick. 

Oikawa bats his hand away and looking pointedly annoyed, button nose scrunched up as if Hajime himself is the one smelling like a day and a half without a shower. 

“You’re so rude to your best guest, Iwa-chan! One would think you don’t love me even if I am smelly!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t bother answering with more than a “yeah, yeah”, busying himself in the kitchen making tea to calm down both their nerves and minds so they could sleep a bit more.

Whatever tranquility the words exchanged in habit gives him it goes away rather quickly. It is hard, after all, to not think about all of the times where he had done just that: indulged Oikawa in the detriment of his own feelings. 

It has started early.

Iwaizumi is seven when they bump into each other at a playground. They are two kids who don’t know any better and couldn’t be more different. Oikawa is already somewhat popular among the girls and definitely not a boy’s favorite.

Iwaizumi is more of a loner and more interested in bugs than socializing, although, sometimes he’d be willing to engage in a soccer match. 

Most often than not, his team would win.

Amidst tag games and afternoons spent at the same place after school, they barely exchange a hundred words — no more than acquaintances in each other’s eyes.

Until they aren’t anymore.

A beetle suddenly comes close to Oikawa’s feet while the boy is resting in the shade of one more humid August day.

Something as simple as that, and childish surprise.That’s all Tooru needs to remember the boy who is always interested in insects. All he needs to do is scream from the top of his small but powerful lungs, as if his life depends on it.

So he does.

“IWAIZUMI-KUN!”

It feels like being hit by a lightning bolt, Iwaizumi remembers.

Blush rises to his cheeks as the attention is suddenly on him, parents chuckling as he quickly moves to that Oikawa kid to tell him to shut up and stop yelling around.

“What are yo—”, but his intention is cut short. 

He blinks, first at the gap-toothed grin the other kid is sporting, and second at the hercules beetle, now settled on the palm of his hand like it belongs there — like it is the safest and most secure place to be.

The most reliable hands in the world. 

He had never seen Oikawa with an insect before. In fact, he is suspicious that he is afraid of them until this very moment. He has never shared his love for insects with the usually frivolous boy. And yet, Oikawa remembers that he likes them.

From day one he has remembered the things that make Iwaizumi happy, like it is just natural, and now he is offering one of those things to him. 

“You like beetles, right? Look, this one’s super big!” He says, extending the hand that is gently holding the beetle to Hajime. Unaware of the reason, Iwaizumi feels himself blushing a tiny bit more. 

"That's… Cool. Thank you.” He finally says, accepting and grabbing the animal carefully before putting it inside a plastic container with holes on the lid that he brings every day for this exact purpose.

You never know when you are gonna find hidden gems. 

“You welcome, Iwa-chan!” 

That too is new. 

“What?” He frowns. 

“I-W-A-C-H-A-N!” It’s a good nickname, don’t you think?” Oikawa blinks, doe-eyed and hopeful.

Every bone in Iwaizumi’s body tells him that saying yes would be as bad as telling his mom he would try to eat more vegetables if she gave him a terrarium. It seemed like a reasonable price at the time, but soon he found out that he’d have to eat broccoli and lettuce every day. 

Iwaizumi has no plans of getting himself a nickname that involves “chan”.

One day, he is sure to be “Iwa-san” or “Iwa-kun”, maybe even a cool and unusual “Zumi-sempai”. And yet, all it takes is for Oikawa to blink his eyes again for a little grumble to come out of Iwaizumi’s lips.

He rubs his eyes, slightly embarrassed, voice barely there.

“What was that, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa squints, leaning his body a little bit closer. 

Nervousness makes Iwaizumi’s skin tingle. 

“I SAID IT’S FINE! Whatever!” His voice rumbles, traveling loudly through the playground and calling attention to them again. 

Some of the kids nearby seem a bit afraid of him, apprehensive, but not Oikawa. He just tilts his head, chestnut hair bouncing and then laughs. A burst of full laughter that gets him clutching at his stomach and leaving Iwaizumi dumbfounded at how _nice_ the sound rings on his ears. 

Not knowing what to do with the feeling, he decides to say Oikawa laughter is _stupid_ , and they have their very own first fight just them.

One milk box and handshake later, they have already made peace. 

Iwaizumi thought it is a pattern he would be able to change, that he wouldn’t always say yes to his obnoxious gangly best friend, with his obnoxious smile and sweetest eyes just because he wants ramen on a random night. Just because he wants to have a sleepover, or milk bread or stay late at the gym because Oikawa thinks he needs to practice more even though his serve is honed to perfection.

Hajime believed that he could keep Oikawa as simply Oikawa, his best friend. But eventually, he becomes _Tooru._

Tooru lives in his thoughts late at night. A forbidden secret that permeates his dreams, to the point that even looking at the sky seems fruitless because all of the stars Hajime wants to see are on those silly ichor eyes of that same silly, gangly boy he met so many years ago. 

Clearly, the heart has reasons that the mind doesn’t know, because thinking about him, breathing him in, having him close and not being able to touch him is the most masochistic he has ever been — and Iwaizumi truly never liked pain.

He also wasn’t expecting it to have an end, but it does.

It starts with fingers that linger on his shoulder for too much as they finally reach the second year of high school.

It comes in the shape of days passed together when he knows the other should be on a date, as songs and phone calls shared in the middle of the night when sleeping is impossible for Oikawa’s ever-restless mind. 

Iwaizumi just can’t not pick up the phone. And on one of these nights, when sleep is already clouding his judgment and Morpheus' touch was dragging him under he whispers a soft “I love you” that he can never take back. 

But he doesn’t need to.

Because come the next morning, Oikawa’s body is crushing into his in a tight embrace. His best friend was all warm blushy cheeks and a whole speech powered up by coffee that Hajime can’t understand a word from, except for a pair that makes him feel like the earth had turned on its axis: 

“Me too—” Tooru says, all breathless, holy and stupidly beautiful and afraid. His shaking hands take Hajime’s ones with uncertainty, but his grasp is firm, “—I love you too.”

And just like that, just like the beetle so many years ago, Oikawa is once again giving him the things he wants the most. 

Or so he thought.

Because for all the kisses, all the memories, all the touches that lit his skin ablaze; for all the promises and dates, they never really put a name to what they are.

And that never bothered Hajime, because surely, it’s something that would change with time. 

Only it doesn’t. 

Soon comes graduation and Argentina and Irvine, and they remain the same.

Nameless, imaginary lovers, continents away. 

“It’s better to be open.” Tooru had once said, one too many sangrias running through his bloodstream, voice thick with words still stuck on his throat that Hajime doesn’t dare to imagine.

He notices Tooru biting his own lip hard until, knows that later their kiss will taste like iron, but the action doesn’t coax those words out of him either.

“I just don’t wanna be unfair to us.” Tooru completes.

Hajime, ever the adaptable one, decides on simply muttering ‘okay’.

He really thought he had control, until it’s clear that he doesn’t.

Until now, with the weight of their story too heavy on his shoulders, kettle whistling on his ears as an unwanted warning sign while Oikawa is probably rummaging through his closet, in the hunt to steal yet another of his hoodies.

Now, Iwaizumi wonders if he hasn’t indulged him _too much._

Maybe it’s time to stop.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Clues to a mystery, Tooru’s belongings are already scattered around the apartment the next morning. 

In its infinitesimal details, Iwaizumi finds poetry in it.

On how Oikawa’s sweater, haphazardly thrown across the couch’s arm, seems to be a polaroid taken from a life Hajime didn’t live but could have. How Oikawa’s shoes at the genkan are weirdly and perfectly aligned, deliberately placed with carefulness because this is the only thing Tooru is particular about.

He wants them to look perfectly aligned to Hajime’s.

Hajime finds poetry evenly, and maybe especially, on how there’s a little scruff covering Tooru’s chin as he wakes up in the morning, his hair tuzzled embarrassingly in multiple directions. 

It's terribly endearing. 

Just like it is the way Tooru drags his feet across the wooden floor, grumbling unintelligible things. It’s mostly about how Iwaizumi’s apartment feels too cold and that he is so stingy, that Hajime should turn the heater on higher. 

“Just because you are a human furnace, doesn’t mean everyone is, Haji.” He chastises, toothbrush inside his mouth while he scratches his belly while standing at the bathroom door.

“Uhum.” 

In the end, every little detail of Oikawa Tooru leaves him more enamored. Every little action turns into memories that Hajime keeps in little boxes at the back of his mind, revisiting it and allowing himself to bask in it’s grace when he can’t appreciate it in person.

He wishes it was enough to take away the attention from the things Tooru does that sting. 

This time, more than the initial awkwardness upon his arrival, what strikes Iwaizumi the most is how Oikawa’s bag is still by the door, but his toiletries already occupy Hajime’s sink. 

During his last visit, Tooru placed it in the room and took half of the space in Iwaizumi’s closet with his belongings.

Now it feels like a reminder that at any second Oikawa might vanish, leave with no warning through the door. 

Again, it makes Iwaizumi contemplate what he can’t have yet — might never have. They stretch in his imagination, uncontrolled and cruel. 

As it's too late to dwell on such intricacies that can't be solved, Hajime opts for getting up, washing his face while Tooru showers. After brushing his teeth, he moves to the kitchen to start their late breakfast while the scent of lemongrass takes over his bathroom, his house.

If he could pick a scent as his favorite, this would be the one. 

Pushing his fringe back with his hand, he comes back to reality.

The meal he decides for is traditionally japanese, a consequence of habits that Hajime created in his attempt to ground his life and build a home instead of simply inhabiting a space in the middle of a cosmopolis like Tokyo. 

He finds comfort in the gentle sizzle of the fish against the pan as he sips from his mug, filled with coffee to the brim. Hajime holds himself in leisure, enjoying how the proximity with the stove slowly makes his naked upper body warmer, focusing on turning the meat with his hashi while the rice warms up at the donabe. 

The misoshiru is ready in minutes, a tad more of awase dashi than usual, just so it tastes like his mom’s cooking.

For a second his body moves by memory, following a dance, images of the deliberate gestures of his mom’s hand as she would cut the tofu on his mind. It is placed gently at the palm of her hand as the knife glides, parallelly through the middle before slashing it in perfectly measured cubes. 

She was never afraid of the blade and neither is he, used by now to its weight and the ghost of its edge kissing his flesh threateningly without ever fully piercing it, as long as he respects the process.

No rush or second thoughts, just stability and patience; those are things Hajime is good at.

He keeps doing so even as Tooru aligns himself at his back, still damp from his shower, rumpled from sleep. All that surrounds him is warmth and lemongrass. 

Tooru’s gentle breathing and the subtle dance of his idle fingers over Hajime’s skin on his belly all that he needs to find some inner piece while, one by one, the pieces of tofu are dropped gently over the soup.

Hajime relishes on each of those feelings until it’s too much, until tenderness threatens to burst through his chest.

He rather breaks the spell himself.

So he turns off the stove and separates the fish into two small plates. Task done, it’s easy to turn around, leaving a kiss on Oikawa’s forehead as Hajime stretches himself. After that, the setter naturally untangles himself from him. 

“Let’s eat now, Lazykawa.” The endearment slips from his lips just as the moment slips away through his fingers.

They busy themselves with more tasks.

Pots and pans and plates that Hajime settles over a small table for two where usually one eats, but not today.

Today Tooru spreads himself over the chair in front of him and smiles, tiny little freckles glimmering over the bridge of his sunkissed nose and a few on his cheeks as his eyes shimmer with mirth that Iwaizumi missed terribly. 

He is still wearing Hajime’s sweater, his hand seeking Hajime's across the table as soon as he sits down. Under it, his ankles hook with one of Hajime’s feet, because not to be touching in every possible way is unimaginable.

Oikawa slots their fingers together, a simple affectionate gesture that scalds Hajime’s senses and reminds the athletic trainer of how easy it can be.

And he lets it. 

With a resigned sigh he allows a smile to bloom over his lips, bringing Tooru’s hand close to his mouth so he can press them against its back, speaking against it. 

“What are you smiling like that for, hm?” Hajime taunts, voice a bit hoarse with disuse. 

“Just… Feels good to not see you through a screen for a change. Although pixelated Iwa-chan is maybe a bit more handsome.” Oikawa’s nose scrunches up a bit, Iwaizumi notices.

The dimples on his cheeks are more prominent as he tries not to laugh at the lie he just told through his teeth. It’s the same smile that he fell in love with when they were seven.

It’s only natural for it to happen again, every time he gets to see it.

“That so? Next time I will bite your finger off, punishment for sputtering nonsense,” he declares, “And eat your food.”

To make a point of it, Iwaizumi bites gently at the second knuckle of Oikawa’s middle finger, letting go of his hand not even two seconds after in favor of scooping up some rice to his bowl.

He had already signed up for his sentence, though. 

“Iwa-chan~” Oikawa starts, and the lilt in his voice makes Iwaizumi look up, already half mortified. 

That lower pitch is reserved to tournaments, to talking to the adversary across the net as he shoots provocative remarks. To Iwaizumi, it’s used when it’s late at night and they miss each other so much that their bodies catch on fire without touching.

He forgot completely how it makes him feel when they are within centimeters of each other. 

“Don’t you think it’s too early for fingers in mouth?” Tooru smirks, self satisfied and obnoxious.

Iwaizumi inhales and begs the Gods for more patience before he falls to the temptation of smothering Oikawa in his sleep.

Affectionately.

“It’s definitely not too early to kick you out, so shut up.” He mumbles, completely unimpressed although there’s a hint of warmth in his face that he chooses to ignore.

At least Oikawa’s face doesn’t look much different.

“And it’s not early at all actually, it’s 12:30 pm.” Hajime grabs a portion of rice and fish, finally starting to eat. 

“We slept for six hours?!” Taking the cue, Oikawa does the same, the soft hum that slips from his lips as he chews amplifies the satisfaction taking Iwaizumi’s chest.

“Yeap.” He repeats, mouth still full.

“Amazing, what are we even gonna do for the rest of the day?” When Oikawa asks, there’s no hidden agenda behind it, just genuine curiosity and Iwaizumi ponders.

Truth is, Oikawa never got to spend too much time in Tokyo.

They had been there a couple of times when students, but after creating his path at East Tooru never got to come back and enjoy the city, truly.

All of his visits to Japan were Miyagi centered because, although many would think past him, Iwaizumi knew how devoted Oikawa was to his family. He knew how dearly he held his teammates at Seijoh that, even now, supported each and every one of his steps with blind trust and unbridled pride.

Hajime never held any of that against him obviously, could never.

It brought genuine happiness to him, instead of staying in Tokyo to visit Miyagi with Tooru.

From the road trip to stepping into their childhood houses, it was always fun, always ending in laughter while staring at a periwinkle sky. But the prospect of having the Oikawa to himself in Tokyo, without having to share — it was almost too greedy of a thought to entertain.

But real now.

Real and bittersweet, because any plans had been suffocated by the lack of communication that had grown exponentially between then in the past week. And if that wasn’t enough reason, the pandemic disseminating world widely certainly was. 

It was better to stay at home.

It feels like life outside the walls of his apartment are suddenly on hold, but they aren't. If that’s a good or bad thing it is still to be decided. 

“Nothing? We can just hang around here.” Hajime shrugs, washing away the sourness that suddenly clung to his tongue with the rest of his misoshiru. 

“That sounds good, time to make up for the lost time and make out until our lips fall off.” Oikawa says, making a kissy face and puckering pinkish lips too shiny with oil. 

That normally would be enough to take Hajime out of his funk, but it’s only half effective.

Appealing as it is, despite the small smile that reaches his lips unbeknownst to himself, there is already a sullen tension piled up on Hajime’s temples.

The words he hadn’t dared to speak over the phone before Oikawa got to Japan form a lump on his throat now, he cannot push the sensation away.

It’s thick and prickly, not different from how his heart felt when, over the phone, Oikawa had told him the great news of the renewal of vows that his sister and her husband had decided to make to celebrate their 10 year anniversary. 

That would be the opposite of a problem, hadn’t Tooru said, after three days of barely exchanging messages, that Hajime didn’t need to come with him _right away_.

It felt stupid, to hear those words put together like Oikawa’s presence is a normal occurrence. Like he is coming to stay and they would have a chance to enjoy each other’s company after, like they have all the time in the world.

Do they?

There was something unnatural and airy in the way Oikawa had said it, a chirp that reminded Hajime of seventeen-year-old them — watching Oikawa talk with a dozen of girls, making up excuses for the time he couldn’t spend with them, but trying to lay them down gently.

It is the same tone he had used when he tried to lie to Iwaizumi at the brink of their third year, afraid to break the news of Blanco’s invitation for him to play on Argentina, as if something like distance could placate the ocean of devotion that had nested itself in Iwaizumi’s chest for one Oikawa Tooru.

It hurts. 

The usual two days that they normally spend together before going to Miyagi felt like a tradition Iwaizumi created on his own, like those moments spent with Oikawa were important just to him and he loathes the phone call more than he is able to fathom. 

“Talk for yourself, I intend to keep mine just fine.” Iwaizumi says, not looking Tooru in the eye. 

He tries to avoid it, but there is a touch of bitterness in his tone that he can’t quite placate when it makes his tongue heavier. The words keep coming out, regardless of how he feels.

“Did your mom say anything else? Are they gonna change the date for the ceremony?” Hajime asks, seeing something akin to discomfort flicker at Oikawa’s warm ichor eyes. 

It hurts to hurt.

“I guess so, she didn’t say anything yet.” Tooru answers, noticing the change on Hajime’s tone.

Oikawa is trying to acquiesce whatever turmoil that has settled in Hajime’s mind with the vagueness, but it’s not enough.

There’s not only one thing bothering Iwaizumi. 

“So why didn’t you unpack your bag yet?” Hajime asks, more hoarse, raw.

He sees a thousand answers travel across Tooru’s hazy eyes in a millisecond.

He sees all the lies that could tip over those shiny lips he dreams of kissing, day and night, night and day. But then the truth comes and it’s simple, as incomplete as he feels when he notices that the puzzle that they make may have some missing pieces after all. 

“I just… Don’t know if I should do it just yet.” 

At least this time Oikawa doesn’t play pretend.

“Why not?” Iwaizumi prods, his stomach white hot as anxiety bubbles under his skin, but that feels better and easier to handle because they are at least saying _something._

He always prefers to face things head first, so he wonders what in Tooru always made him so weak to not be able to so every time. 

“I just—Forget it, it’s fine, you are right! I will do it today!” Oikawa chirps, a smile that almost reaches his eyes on his mouth, fake cheerfulness lacing his tone as he adds: “I will also do the dishes, Iwa-chan, don’t worry! Leave it all to me!”

It feels like a punch on Iwaizumi’s guts.

Once again, they are at a starting line, but Hajime is not sure he wants to run. It drains whatever energy he had, killing whatever words that were close to tethering off his throat. 

“Alright.” With that, Hajime swallows his feelings. He settles instead for a constricted chest and the easy cowardice that is silence, but there’s sourness on his voice.

As he watches Tooru finish all of his food and fuss around over doing the dishes he clearly hates, Hajime tries to believe that maybe the reason why Oikawa didn’t go any further is because he is weak for Hajime too.

He ponders if that will be enough to find out what they are missing and fill the gaps before it becomes too late.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


Oikawa’s smile stays webbed on his lips until Iwaizumi gets up, steps echoing away from him with no signals left behind to soothe the worries that tangle around his ribcage, making it a bit harder to breathe.

Tooru is chewing on thoughts he can’t at the moment lock away at the back of his mind, there’s no volleyball to help with that. 

So instead, he insists on a made up hummed song for about a minute, water sliding down his knuckles as he washes the dishes. The sound dies, however, as he wonders why he couldn’t wash away his insecurities too. 

His relationship with Hajime had never felt like a burden, but it is heavy now.

He is more than aware of the countless nights in Argentina when thinking about Hajime having his back was enough to provide strength to the loneliest moments, the most difficult ones. Hajime is always one phone call away, a sweet whisper in his ear capable of dissolving the webs of distress even if they were 6 thousand miles away. 

And still, he knows, not five minutes ago Tooru built a wall with words and dismissal that brought to Iwaizumi’s eyes more anguish than any farewell shared at the airport gate. 

It’s the same look he got when he had said that he preferred to keep their relationship open, too far from each other’s arms as they were set to be.

The difference is that then, there was a flicker of hope that told a nineteen-year-old Oikawa that, no matters what, Iwaizumi was willing to make it work. 

Now, it is like watching a fire pit slowly turning to ember.

As he seizes what that means for him, for _them_ , Tooru finds himself caught in a cloud of _what ifs_. They clog his throat because he can’t reconcile the pain of feeling Hajime slowly slipping through his fingers with the growth he experienced in Argentina. 

Argentina was, in many ways, all that Tooru needed.

Its paving stone streets lead him to self-discovery, to kissing boys and girls without being ebbed to the fear of how society would perceive him and his actions, to facing alone the growing pains that leaving his mark on volleyball would cost. Day by day he sharpened his abilities to it’s finest without ever giving up.

Even when he was benched, even when he couldn’t get the final point. 

Falling apart and pulling himself back together without self-destructing admittedly had involved a sharp learning curve. But Tooru got there, with his ambitions urging him forward, his insecurities no longer able to keep him hostage. 

It would be a cruelly knitted lie, however, to say that he did it all without Hajime’s support. But sometimes, Tooru wishes he could’ve done so.

There had been others, of course.

He remembers Guilherme, with soft hands that traced patterns over Oikawa’s forearms every time they kissed. A man that taught him about nature, and life, and yoga and letting go. He also remembers Rosa, who never left her home without painting her lips ruby red and whose smile could light up his whole world every time he got a glimpse of the little gap between her front teeth.

He also always dropped with surprises, usually to leave him a new recipe she was learning in her cooking class or a book she thought he would like.

There was also Lola, who studied sociology, didn’t identify themselves as male or female, and was always a good listening ear, willing to give Tooru a gentle nudge in the right direction. They also taught him how to dance salsa in a place where crop tops were mandatory and the sound of people laughing filled up the air, letting him find a space where he could just _be_. 

They each branded Tooru in a different way, they each had opened his eyes to different perspectives he would never be able to experience back home in Japan.

They all helped, along with his teammates and Ana Lucia — the small old lady that lived in the same street as he did, and that became some sort of motherly figure to him — to make Argentina not a pit stop, but a home. 

But every night, no matter how hard he had tried to pry his figure away from his thoughts when trying to get involved with someone else, Tooru would think of Hajime. 

Hajime, who still calls him at the most stupidly needed times without even knowing. Hajime, who never let Tooru doubt his affections towards him. Hajime, who is and will always be first and foremost his best friend. 

Even with every helping hand he got along the way, he knows that he would’ve never have made it this far with such levity if not for the man with calloused hands that smells like rain and sandalwood; like comfort and log fire. 

Like life, his present and his past.

Because the thing is, in an ideal world, Tooru would build a castle for Hajime. He would go through hell and beyond to give him all.

But growing up together, seeing the lines between friendship and love get blurred with time, Oikawa is afraid that he is holding Hajime hostage in a relationship that exists merely out of comfort. He is afraid that he is keeping him from seeing what is outside and what he could achieve if he allows himself to step out of Tooru’s embrace. 

If he allows himself to see that Oikawa Tooru is definitely not the only person capable of falling in love with him.

But at nineteen, Oikawa was selfish. 

He wanted to keep Iwaizumi to himself, his lousiest laughter a sound that only his ears would know. The velvet touch of his tongue the compass only his own knew how to follow, his body a temple that only Tooru was allowed to visit. 

But it wasn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fair and Oikawa, so young, was afraid.

Afraid of love and being loved so thoroughly by a man who was so selfless and caring and the scars he could leave on him if he committed mistakes.

So he threw himself at only one of his dreams, letting Hajime and their relationship turn into an untasteful _almost_. 

It’s something,but not so much that can ruin them both.

But Oikawa is still selfish.

Which is why, at the unsettling burn of fear on his stomach, he decides that it is time to finish the dishes, not bothering himself with putting them in place right away.

Instead, he seeks his phone.

As he walks he types away, the Spotify icon a blessing to his eyes. Soon a song is delighting his ears whilst Tooru walks to the room.

There’s no speaking system in the house, he knows Hajime is too much of a cheapskate for that, but there is still a _them._ It’s frail, hangs by a thread, but right now that is all that matters.

He wants to mend it, at least a little bit.

It helps that the athletic trainer is already leaving his room, almost walking into Oikawa as Line Without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery starts to play.

Hajime still looks dejected, raising his eyes questioningly as something akin to hope knots around Oikawa’s heart that, maybe, things are not beyond repair. 

“Dance with me, Iwa-chan.” He says as he throws his phone at the couch, a small smile on his lips, a hand already extending to hook at the back of Hajime’s neck. The latter rolls his eyes, seemingly unconvinced. 

“I don’t feel that much like dancing.” Hajime confesses, and it stings, but Iwaizumi also doesn’t try to pull away.

He lingers.

Hajime always does, and Oikawa is grateful that habits are hard to break because, with his arms now thrown over Hajime’s shoulder and the song playing in the background, he pulls out his strongest moves.

He kisses at Hajime’s cheek, he kisses his nose and his jaw. Then Tooru watches, as Iwaizumi’s nose wrinkles, the beginning of acceptance dance on Iwaizumi’s juniper green eyes, the fake annoyance he is so enamored for blossoming substituting the real one. 

“Please?” he asks again and kisses him again; Hajime’s other cheek this time. “Pretty please?” Tooru insists, and it doesn’t take much longer to have Hajime’s hands around his waist, with a grumpy groan and a clack of his tongue. 

“You are so annoying.” Iwaizumi rumbles, but he says so as he lets Oikawa kiss his jaw again, as he lets him step on his foot and merely laughs at how clumsy and out of rhythm they are as he really starts to move with Tooru.

“But you still love me, you do.” Tooru sings songs, making them spin around.

Hajime’s hold becomes tighter, his lips seeking for a contact Oikawa is more than willing to give as the athletic trainer kisses him this time.  
  


“I do.” Hajime chants against his mouth, softly.

It’s a confession, comes embroidered with the gentle hand that leads Tooru, that caresses his hip as Hajime gets on his tiptoes to spin him around. 

At that, Oikawa laughs. He laughs and spins him too.

He laughs and allows them to find that odd familiar place where there’s no right or wrong, no doubts, there’s just the complicity and synchrony that comes with knowing someone your whole life.

It’s just what they are, two halves of one soul enjoying their time together, incapable of kissing because their smiles are on the way as their hands keep seeking more — face, hair, waist, arms, any and every piece of exposed flesh they can reach. Bodies that have their own small universe within themselves, their own gravity.

Right now, they are timeless. 

“ _Guess there’s something, and there is nothing, there is nothing in between_ …” Oikawa sings, happy and off-key as Hajime kisses his throat, traces his spine with a hand under his shirt, blooming stars dancing across his skin as he looks down and takes hold of Hajime’s face. “ _And in my eyes, there is a tiny dancer_ …” he starts but loses himself to giggles as Hajime tickles his sides, biting the juncture of neck and shoulders.

“I wanna kick your ass so bad.” Iwaizumi mumbles, half elated and half annoyed, red painting his cheeks the same way it does to Tooru’s. 

And Tooru knows, just because of the way Iwaizumi looks at him, that he wants to paint their whole world carmesin with love. 

“Iwa-chan, stop!” He begs, to no avail, everything warm and easy as they fall on the couch and kiss once again.

In the easy glide of their lips they find their true north star, and Oikawa doesn’t think, just surrenders himself to the feelings of completeness that entails loving Iwaizumi Hajime. 

In minutes there are clothes around the floor, a song playing that doesn’t match the roll of Oikawa’s hips over Iwaizumi’s lap as they melt against each other, light pink dusting tanned muscles. Every please that scapes their mouths is muffled by the desire and pleasure that the action entails. 

When the world combusts into stars behind Tooru’s eyelids Iwaizumi is there, holding him down, and all that is not them holds no matter. 

“ _I love you_.” Hajime says as his lips trail through Tooru’s throat once again, unbearably gentle now that the rush and anxiousness has dissipated around them and tenderness is all that is left behind in its quaking. 

“ _I love you too._ ” Tooru echoes, hands splayed out on Hajime’s back as he holds himself against him and relaxes. 

As their breaths mingle and their hearts beat attune, Oikawa wonders if maybe, just maybe, he can’t let himself be selfish once more and have this for the rest of his life. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s easy, Iwaizumi thinks.

It’s easy to fall into the gentle pace of Oikawa’s breathing, to be dazzled by the glimmer of sunlight that traces his golden skin like a silk cloak while he remains sprawled out and beautiful, naked over his bed like a deity.

It’s easy to kiss and say a prayer against every new freckle that he spots at his back, to whisper sweet nothings on his ear as he lets his hands skim free, interpreting in reverie the contouring of Tooru’s topography. 

It’s easy to laugh against the dean of his lower back as Tooru giggles, ticklish and silly, so strong and perfect under his hands. Iwaizumi feasts on every sound he manages to rip from him, in every word and tale about his daily life before they dive back into each other.

After dinner he lets Tooru break him apart, then lets Tooru put him back together. As his body bends for him, Hajime considers, not for the first time, that nothing is as intoxicating and perfect as loving another human being. 

It’s so terribly easy that he forgets, for a second why it can also be terribly hard.

He is reminded in the morning, at the sight of Tooru’s bag, still unmade, now at a corner of his room. The saddest part is that there’s nobody to blame over the throbbing hollowness that overtakes his heart but himself.

His leniency makes his coffee overly bitter. 

When Oikawa wakes up, all lazy long limbs, Iwaizumi is already working on drowning in work, preparing new regimens for the athletes of the national team. He types mechanically at the keyboard inside his office, distracted from the questions the other man throws his way. 

“How did you sleep?”

“Is there any breakfast left?”

“Do you wanna go for a run?”

It all falls on deaf ears, Iwaizumi simply sorting through small apologies and excuses while forcing himself not to see eye to eye with his lover.

He is afraid of testifying any flare of pain in Tooru’s eyes. It’s impossible to do so, however, when Tooru’s voice comes out softer, careful.

“You are busy working, right? I will try not to bother you too much, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa promises, gulping at his pretentious matcha tea (the one Hajime keeps in storage for him) before searing a kiss against the athletic trainer’s temple as he leans down.

He leaves the small office right after, the place where his lips touched feels warm for a while.

Alone at the cubicle, Hajime wallows in guilt for at least fifteen minutes before he resumes his job again. 

It stays like that until midday, when he opens the door in time to catch Tooru coming out of the shower, the dull look in his eyes changing to something brilliant and sweet as he looks up and sees Hajime there, starring. It makes Hajime throb with affection. 

“Iwa-chan, are you finally coming out of your man cave? Never thought I would get jealous of a room, what a delight. It is time you pay some attention to me, after all.” He says so while toweling at his hair, it’s the poorest attempt to dry it that Hajime has ever seen him do.

Iwaizumi has to plant his feet more strongly on the floor so as not to go and take the task for himself. 

“It’s not a man cave, but I still have a lot to do so I can’t really entertain you much right now, sorry.” He explains, walking to the kitchen to grab more coffee, Oikawa on his tail. 

  
  


“I thought you didn’t have that much to finish until next week?” Tooru asks, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. 

“I was wrong,” Iwaizumi mutters, filling up his mug. “Sorry.”

With a hum and a gulp of water, Oikawa complies. 

They share a silence for a minute that is not comforting. It’s a voidness that extends itself between them, but the understanding of it doesn’t allow for actions at the moment that could have the power to dissipate it.

They are both too stubborn.

Still, as if magnetized, when Iwaizumi finally steps away to go back to his office, Oikawa looms behind him.

He is weirdly silent as they both reach the room, letting Iwaizumi focus on whatever he is working on the computer while he roves, but it’s not like Hajime can afford proper concentration as it is.

He watches in silence, over his shoulder, as Oikawa’s beautiful silhouette lets his eyes linger on the paraphernalia stocked around the corners. Medical supplies, elastic bands, weights and even a yogi ball.

Hajime watches as Tooru finally stands in front of a shelf and traces the spines of the books piled up in it with careful fingers, until something finally catches his piercing gaze. 

When he pulls the book, Hajime’s heart stutters on his chest. 

“Iwa-chan, You still like poetry?” He asks, unaware of the turmoil that sight provokes in Hajime’s core.

Iwaizumi gets up without meaning to, cruising the short distance between them in two strides, gaze fixed at the way Tooru’s lithe fingers hold the hard-covered anthology of Sappho’s poems and fragments. 

It takes him back.

Iwaizumi Hajime is twenty-one when he meets Lucca on a Sunday afternoon, still learning his way around longboarding at Santa Monica’s boardwalk.

His friends are not too far behind, having stopped to mock him for his lack of immediate proficiency on the skate as he is known in UCLA for being ridiculously good at any sports in general. But Hajime is nothing but persistent, so eventually he gets the hang of it. 

When he catches sight, however, of wavy chocolate hair and the dark skin of a man seemingly too engrossed with a stupidly big book in his hands, he loses balance. 

His trip is conjoined by unknown laughter that rings loudly and free on his ears, so free that he perks up amidst inner curses to search for the source. Hajime chokes on his own tongue and any complaints he could make fly to the window as the man he was once admiring is now staring at him with a blinding smile and gorgeous blue eyes. 

“I guess angels can fly, but that’s not quite what I was expecting.” The stranger says, lazy and sweet, feeling like ice on a hot summer day running down Hajime’s spine.

“It’s your fault though, you are very distracting.” Hajime says, biting the bait as he raises up and blushes only slightly, to his credit, at his own words. 

Flirting so openly, as north-americans do, is an art he has yet to master. It seems it does the trick, though. 

“Hm? Should I pay my penitence by letting you buy me a drink?” And as the man speaks, he puts his book under his arm, his button-down white shirt almost completely open and swaying gently with the breeze. “I am Lucca, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Iwaizumi Haj-” He starts, but his voice is muffled under the sudden whistling that Frank makes as he skates by, followed soon by Ashton.

The second idiot has his hands around his mouth as he screams, to anyone in the vicinity to hear. It’s the bane of Hajime’s existence. 

“Get it, Jimmy boy!” 

“Fuck you!” Iwaizumi screams back, just slightly mortified. 

Hajime is fucking tired of americans, but when Lucca laughs again he decides that maybe not of this one, if only for the way his eyes wrinkle cutely.

“It’s Iwaizumi Hajime, actually—” he explains, more composed. “— and buying you a drink sounds great.”

And in the end, it is great. 

It’s great because Lucca enjoys poetry as much as he enjoys the frat parties Iwaizumi is more often than not dragged to, his jokes and unabashed flirting always keeping Hajime on his toes. Still, Lucca never loses his mellow posture or sweetness when their lips connect on a kiss.

He is more than a welcomed distraction from Oikawa’s own affairs, and Lucca doesn’t bat an eyelash when all the explanation that Iwaizumi suffices on ‘who is this Argentinian friend of yours?’ with a simple ‘it’s kind of complicated’ in the beginning, respecting whatever space Hajime seems to need. 

It is easy.

So light that his anguish over the fear of Oikawa leaving him behind is slowly swaddled by the others' presence.

It works well, until one day they go to a poetry exposition together, and even though they walk hand in hand, every word he reads transports Hajime to somewhere else. 

_Someone else_. 

“Tonight I’ve watched

The moon and then

the Pleiades

go down

The night is now

half-gone; youth

goes; I am

in bed alone”

He stops, going from twenty-one to seventeen before Lucca tugged at his sleeve to keep walking. The damage is done, however, and Hajime is already almost numb to the touch of his fingers. 

He follows Lucca, but his heart doesn’t.

“And with sweet oil

costly

you anointed yourself

and on a soft bed

delicate

you would let loose your longing

and neither any [ ] nor any

holy place nor

was there from which we were absent

no grove[ ]no dance

] no sound

[”

  
  


It all makes him want to double over and throw up.

Throw up Tooru from his body and mind as the yearning makes his chest squeeze too hard.

It all aches in the most beautiful way, and all of his senses evoke from the memories the touch, the smell, the feelings he nourishes for the one he can never leave behind, that is part of him. 

“When you read this, you are not thinking about me, are you?” Comes Lucca’s voice, a whisper of guilt folding around Hajime’s heart with a vice grip.

As he stares into the other’s beautiful blues at that moment, he can’t find it in himself to lie. 

“No,” he confesses, the tiredness in his voice an echo from the desires of his heart. 

Lucca’s gentle touch on his cheek is what puts him back together. 

“It’s okay.” he says, gentle and caring, branding Iwaizumi’s skin with his mercy. “You are with me now, not with a memory.”

But loving as it sounds with his soothing vice, there is nothing crueler that Lucca could’ve said. 

Even now, as Hajime stands beside Oikawa, it’s cruel. 

It’s cruel because sometimes, as it was then, it is extremely scary to have Oikawa being perceived as no more than a memory for those around Hajime, a fever dream that Iwaizumi dreamt alone, never close enough to be concrete. 

Always a piece of happiness he can’t ever capture. 

“ _Now in my heart, I see clearly, a beautiful face shining back on me, stained with love_.” Oikawa recites, unaware of his pain. “Is this about me, Iwa-chan? It’s even marked, be honest!” 

It makes Iwaizumi commiserate himself in such a way that to break the spell he has to close the book before Oikawa has the chance to read anything else. 

“I don’t remember there being any poems about recyclable garbage for it to be about you.” Iwaizumi answers, easily but strained as Oikawa let’s out an indignant squeak over the retort. “Just… Be careful with it. And lemme work, please.”

“... _Sure_.” Tooru says, and it’s soft and small because Hajime knows, severely as he tried, there was some underlying desperation in the way that his request came out. 

Oikawa leaves and closes the door and he feels like the embodiment of a hurricane, leaving Iwaizumi to roam around the debris in search of the pieces of himself. Trying to mend all the strong desires, resentments and memories he never dares to touch back together.

But it topples over, it’s much too strong. In silence, they overflow from him in silent tears. 

For the first time since Oikawa arrived, he doesn’t try to stop himself from letting it all out. 

He cries to his heart content, every tremor shaking his core even though no sound comes out. His sobs are the quietest thing, they exist only to appease himself.

He keeps crying until some type of relief reaches his brain.

Then, Hajime dries his eyes again, gulps down cold coffee and goes back to work.

He distracts himself with the planning of the rest of the workouts and diets until day turns to night, and even when Oikawa comes to call him for dinner he gives an excuse and stays hidden in his solitude.

When he comes out, he finds dinner over the table, waiting for him and Oikawa fast asleep on his bed, shrunken into a corner.

The vision overlaps the pain, reminding him of why he can’t let go.

After eating, showering and brushing his teeth he joins Tooru then. He glues himself at his back and rejoices at the mercy of a small grumbling sound the other lets out as he kisses the nape of his neck and holds tight at Tooru’s middle. 

In the end, no matter how hard, Hajime can’t help but always choose this inscrutable love.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


With echoes of dreams still blearing his eyes, Hajime blinks awake alone.

One splash of cold water later and the path to the kitchen is made naturally, no second thoughts recurring on his mind before he drapes himself over Oikawa’s back when he approaches the man that hums and cooks by the stove.

He feels him jolt slightly to his presence, acquiescing in seconds and finally relaxing.

Iwaizumi, then, does the same. 

The relief granted from crying the day before is still present, a gentle buzz under his skin that allows Hajime to dive into the beautiful illusion that is formed with the morning. It’s the illusion of warm bodies pressed together, the smell of a lover lingering on his bed, on his clothes, the attention poured in preparing breakfast for two.

It doesn’t matter if it’s eggs, bacon and toasts, alluding to his college days; it’s still soothing.

Being just the right size for his mouth to fit exactly against the nape of Oikawa’s neck he succumbs to the thought, pecking gently at warm skin, inhaling deeply right after that scent of lemongrass and sun.

In his arms, the taller man lets out a giggle and Hajime smiles, even if it's a small one.

“Good morning to you too, Haji. Did you sleep well?” Tooru asks, turning around to kiss his forehead because Oikawa has just the right height to do so.

In his chest, Hajime’s heart swells twice it’s size.

“G’ morning. And yeah, slept okay. You?” Without ado, he starts to help Oikawa while the other is busy turning off the stove.

He grabs plates at the shelves along with cups and then the silverware while the athlete sets the food on the table. 

“Very much so! Can you see now, Iwa-chan? Aren’t you impressed that I got my sleeping schedule together?” Looking overly satisfied, Oikawa sits and Iwaizumi does not delay on doing the same, feet hooking under the table with Oikawa’s by the ankles. 

Seeing surprise and tenderness bloom at Oikawa’s expression, probably because he usually is the one to do such a thing, is immediately worth the small gesture. 

“Thanks for the food. And kind of,” he starts, making his plate. “you still sleep like a kid, though, all cornered up.” 

He feels ridiculously fond of the omelet made by the other as he stares down at it, the soft yellow color complimented by the smiley face Oikawa drew over it with ketchup. It’s almost a shame to eat it. 

“Hah?! At least I am not an old man who sleeps with socks.” Tooru accuses but when Iwaizumi looks up, he sees that all is fine despite the hashi pointed in his direction. 

This is the usual them. It’s familiar.

It’s like one of the many mornings spent in each other’s houses when they were sixteen. Two kids learning to love, still sprouting, mere shadows of the men that both are today.

The bittersweetness is welcomed by Hajime in the form of a light grimace, punctuated by the short, throaty chuckle that escapes despite his best efforts to try and pretend, for a second, that he is actually irritated. 

“Shut up. I don’t like to have cold feet.” He mumbles, shoving more bacon and eggs down his throat, no finesse necessary, no one that he doesn’t feel extremely comfortable with watching to impress. 

“Heathen.” Oikawa murmurs, airy and happy. “I was thinking about running after breakfast. What do you think?”

“Sure. I’m down.” 

The words leave his mouth before he can consider them properly.

Truth is, Hajime knows right now that they are at the edge — him especially. Too close to falling, tethering on a tightrope.

But it’s the first day since Oikawa arrived that he doesn’t feel tensions coiling at his spine, even if it means continuing to be a second from snapping and breaking the mirage that is inhabiting this space together. 

As he eats, Hajime decides to put at bay his bothering thoughts as he finds himself hanging at the gentle curve of the corners of Oikawa’s plush lips. 

Later, he promises himself. 

Later today, after a run, they will sit and speak.

And Hajime embodies later like a glove.

He lets Oikawa’s warmth sink in his bones; they do the dishes and then he lets the sensation swallow him whole as Tooru sucks at his tongue gently when they kiss against the kitchen counter. Hands always searching, always touching, their skin is alight and they are never completely satisfied. 

It’s a blessing that extends as they get ready to run, masks in place before they stop by the front door of the building, still smiling underneath their covers. 

“To the station and back?” Oikawa suggests and because his every request is a command for him, as his reliable vice-captain, Iwaizumi nods and they start.

Legs afire, every kilometer of the ten they intend to run is accentuated by laughter, bodies bumping against each other as provocations are shouted for no one to hear.

There’s no single soul at the street at first glance, and as they make their way to the station Iwaizumi contemplates the infinity of his affection. 

Tooru running beside him is Adonis himself, strength personified but not limited to that.

He is in the sad ballads of his playlist to the most beautiful upbeat tunes that make his heart leap to his throat. He is in the poetry stocked on the shelves of his office and at the depths of his mind, waiting to be disgorged through his lips in the form of sweet nothings, whispered against freckled skin and his beating heart.

He is the constant of Hajime’s dreams, even when in anguish for this gargantuan love that sometimes seems too big for his body to uphold.

But he does, because even though their love involves labor it’s the one that keeps him alive, sowing every day the sweet fruits of his exertion.

That’s why, when Tooru stops, beads of sweat glistening on his skin, floppy hair plastered against his forehead and smiling as he pulls down his mask in front of the building announcing that he won the run, Hajime doesn’t think twice before kissing him. 

They never did so in Japan, not like this.

Amidst the clash of tongues and teeth, in his hunger to pour himself over him and demonstrate the vastitude of all he feels, the ephemeral fears and societal stigmas that englobe Japan are forgotten. He lets himself enjoy the feverish skin beneath his hands as he holds Tooru’s waist close, the other hand at the nape of his neck. 

He loves him.

He loves Oikawa Tooru so much he is ready to be consumed by it.

And it scalds him, suddenly, when Tooru’s mouth is not over his anymore. 

It burns and burns. The lack condenses something ugly at the pits of his belly that was, until then, just looming in the air.

Rage, usually for his limitations, was what impulsed Hajime to do many things. But the one he feels now due to the way Oikawa suddenly avoids his eyes and motions for them to get back inside, finally leaves him on the brink.

Tooru’s words are completely muffled by the white noise in Iwaizumi’s head. 

The tension is so palpable that Tooru remains plastered the moment they get inside the elevator as Hajime mutters no words. The cubicle is not able to contain six years of affliction and discomfort, and Hajime doesn't look at him.

Only when they are out without the relief of fresh air, confined behind the four walls of Hajime’s apartment, does the athletic trainer finally look at Oikawa

And he sees red. 

He sees a lifetime of _almost_ fracturing his reason and self-control, unable to swallow down all of the resentment he needs to regurgitate. 

“What the fuck is up?!” He questions, his voice razor sharp, and he sees the way it cuts Tooru too as he backs up one step to the living room.

“I don’t— I don’t know what you mean.” Tooru whispers, thunderstruck, eyes unable to sustain Hajime’s gaze.

That’s what assures Iwaizumi that it’s a lie. Oikawa’s eyes can never lie.

“Don’t give me that shit, Tooru. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t keep doing this!” And it hurts, it feels like being cut open and put apart because the pain turns into fear, turns into insecurity, and Hajime can’t hold the load alone anymore.

It’s too heavy, _too tiring_.

“I can’t pretend nothing is happening anymore... _Please_.”

The world in all its dissonance stops for a second — or so it seems while his lips tingle with the words that Hajime throws in the air.

But it’s a bit worth it.

It shows him a glimmer of sorrow, reflected on tawny eyes. Gives him the perception that he is not the only one suffocating under an ocean of appearances and uncertainty.

Oikawa Tooru also feels, they both do. 

“ _I know_.” Tooru relents, and his voice cracks the same way he did with Hajime’s words.

Teary-eyed and beautiful and present, it’s all Iwaizumi ever wanted, at the worst possible moment.

“ _I know,_ ” he repeats, hands trembling slightly at his sides in a way that only someone as well versed in understanding Oikawa’s body language would be able to read. It’s minimal, but it’s there. “but it’s not only my fault. This is not only my fault.” 

“Right now it is!” Hajime chokes, because forcing the words out takes a gargantuan effort.

He watches as Tooru’s composure breaks, but it’s not fair with himself to extend his hand, even though all he wants is to be there for him, always. Hajime allows himself a moment of selfishness, even if he can’t properly think.

Iwaizumi can’t separate his insecurities from his reasoning, and before he can gather an ounce of self-control the pain he carries catches up with him and his words, and he finds himself hurting Tooru as well. 

“You are just avoiding doing what you should like you always do, Tooru. Just speak up.” It’s unthinkable almost, to spit it out like that.

But it comes out anyway, because at least half of what he is saying is true.

Amidst the silent chaos that affixes itself between them, Iwaizumi has to reconcile that yes, there’s one thing that Tooru has always avoided in a way: defining what they are. 

Saying it out loud numbs him enough that Oikawa’s next accusation barely stings. 

“You don’t get to judge me like that.” The setter starts, and as Hajime watches his silent rage come to the surface as well, he thinks about how suddenly it feels like they are further apart now then when they were actually in different countries. “It’s not like you are perfect, Hajime!”

And Tooru is right.

So unbearably right that Iwaizumi let’s out a wry chuckle, devoid of real expression that is not bitterness. He is not perfect, he is not. He has never deemed to be.

And the proof is right in front of his eyes, in the way that Oikawa is slipping away from him, that he wasn’t capable of keeping him close. 

But he did not do this alone.

“So that’s it?” Iwaizumi asks, cold and exhausted. “We are really doing this after all these years? I can’t even complain properly, because it’s not like it’s a proper relationship in the first place.”

For a second, it feels liberating to say it. But then, something also feels terribly wrong.

Oikawa is already frowning, hurt etched in the beautiful contours of his face. His mask of disdain and indifference is now turned to Hajime, and even if he sees something flicker underneath it, Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to say more.

He needs Tooru to take a stand for a chance.

“....Well then maybe this is it, Iwaizumi.” Oikawa mumbles in the most mechanical of ways, the stinginess of being called like that by those lips making Hajime take a step forward, but it’s still not enough, not nearly enough.

There’s a tremor running down his skin, it feels like molten lava as they reach the apex to fall blindly at the precipice. “Maybe we don’t know how to talk because we need a break from something that apparently _doesn’t mean anything._ ”

Immediately, Iwaizumi recoils into himself. Thunderstruck to the depth of the remark, he stays immovable.

“I’m going out.” Oikawa declares with no beat, no time for Hajime to elaborate thoughts or feelings. 

Tooru then moves and passes by him just like that, out of the door in seconds, and Iwaizumi’s world is saturated in shades of gray.

  
  


His gaze flickers to the door as he fights the impulse to cruise the space existent between himself and it, to search for him, bring him back.

The question that hovers his mind and prevents him from doing so is ‘how?’.

How did they get to this?

It's not the first time they have argued, but it’s the first time that they do and let go.

And for Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s absence is comparable to a ghost limb — he can grow used to not having him with him, but it never really goes away. He still jolts awake in the middle of the night wishing for him.

Why is it so difficult?

Hajime could proud himself of always being able to know what he wanted, but this time all he can feel for a moment is the rage spreading like wildfire on his lungs, every word that had just left his mouth a depiction of the ugly feelings he wanted to bury seven feet underneath the dirt. 

But feelings, ugly and hurtful, beautiful and difficult, are all part of the small universe he and Oikawa formed. 

The fact is, it is not in their nature to hold back anything from each other, and they’ve been fighting such a primary law for way too long.

Not only Oikawa, but Iwaizumi himself. 

For a second, he concedes himself the right to miss when things were simpler.

When wet towels left over his couch in Irvine, how to make omelets and the fact that Tooru still didn’t know how to do his laundry properly were the biggest complaints he had at the tip of his tongue.

It’s still not complete honesty, though.

Because even then, there was already a mesh of tender sentiments clogging his throat, questions on the verge of his lips, that he chose time and time again to occupy with kissing Oikawa over the kitchen table instead of just asking ‘can’t you be just mine?’.

When push comes to shove, Iwaizumi had lacked on giving them a definition just as much as Oikawa. 

He was running too, letting the fear of taking the step be an excuse for settling for less, wallowing in self pity; and that was worse than no.

Hajime gets up, and the distance between him and the door is finally crossed as he doesn’t intend to keep doing so.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Outside, Oikawa runs. 

He runs as he considers human nature and existence. 

He thinks about how they are but stardust, how the celestial bodies exist even before human conscience, how they would continue to exist after. He thinks about the Big Bang, the birth of the universe he inhabits and how the sun and earth orbit around each other.

Does Earth ever get tired of gravitating around the Sun?

He thinks about being Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime. 

From Japan to California, from Japan to Argentina and back to what?

Home?

Tooru can’t call Japan that, the same way he can’t pretend that what they are sustaining is working anymore. 

The spell is broken, and it maims him.

It’s a frenzy that jostles his body, gnawing underneath his skin until he finally stops on shaking legs, in front of the train station once again. 

Like minutes ago, there’s not really anyone in there. But even if there are some people, Oikawa can’t bring himself to care; he can’t breathe.

He pulls the air to his lungs but his body just bends forward, until his hands are on his knees and the sting in his eyes makes his head hurt. His breath comes out shallow against the face mask, the physical exertion that the effort puts in his body seemingly too difficult to upstand, finally caving and sitting at the sidewalk. 

He certainly doesn’t feel like he is twenty-five and an olympian anymore. 

Oikawa feels like seventeen. Still afraid of holding Hajime’s hands without the mask of friendship to protect them from prying eyes, too chained to the perfect social persona he created for himself to be able to break the standards and just _be_ in this place. 

If Argentina had been everything he needed, Japan is to this day the cluster of his juvenile insecurities that, sadly, still have a hold on him sometimes.

And right now, he wants to be seventeen. 

He wants to be nothing but immature, maybe buy himself a drink at the vending machines and find something to distract him; anything to drown the churn of his guts every time he thinks of what he is about to lose. 

Because keeping things like this he will lose Hajime. 

If he hasn’t already.

_He’s about to lose Hajime_.

“ _Oh_.” the sound comes out choked, understanding dawning without gentleness, a brick to his head, driving his body to the wall because he positively needs to lean against it. 

After all these years, what is pushing them away and taking Hajime from his hands it’s not somebody else, it’s not Iwaizumi noticing that he has options or that the distance makes it all too hard. 

What is pushing them away completely is himself. 

It’s Oikawa, afraid of compromising his heart as if this love hasn’t already crossed oceans, survived whimsical excuses and sustained him, body and soul, through all his hardships. 

All these years and Iwaizumi is, until this very moment, still there willing and waiting for him.

And Tooru pathetically let it take too long to finally answer, take his head out of his ass, and do something about it. 

He can’t make Hajime wait anymore, so Tooru starts to walk and then runs again.

The blaze in his lungs is brother to the fear that still resides in his head, but neither is enough to keep him from finally trying finally reaching out. 

And it’s immediately worth it because two blocks later and there is Hajime again, coming to meet him halfway.

Tooru can’t help but remember how it felt to meet him at the airport, days ago, and even before — how it felt every time to leave the hand that now extends itself in his direction, and to let it go when they were forced in farewell for the opposite destinations their lives had taken.

But not their hearts. 

It’s such a corny and stupidly honest thought that Oikawa catches himself in wry laughter — an extremely tired and breathless version of it. It’s low and pathetic, and although the serious expression in Iwaizumi’s face doesn’t falter, it softens a bit.

“Come on.” Hajime says. “Let’s go home.”

Tooru’s stares at Iwaizumi’s hand, he notices how it trembles. 

With a quick nod of his head, Oikawa finally takes it, and he can’t help but think he already is home. 

  
  
  
  


  
  
  


Regardless of their best intentions, the walk to the apartment is awkward. Their gaze never meets and Oikawa feels the clamminess in his hand getting worse by the second, but they also don’t let it go.

From the moment Hajime intertwines their fingers together, thumb softly caressing the back of his hand in what Tooru assumes is a knee-jerk reaction to the gesture itself, until they reach the door to Hajime’s apartment after taking the elevator — they never let go.

It helps to ease the discomfort that revolves his heart but the pressure is there as soon as they reach the inside of the apartment in the weirdest deja vu Oikawa has ever experienced; he can but hope that the conversation will do better this time. 

Being the last one to pass through the door, Tooru closes it gently, disentangling his fingers from Hajime’s as the other keeps walking, stopping a few steps ahead as he notices Oikawa not following the motion.

Tooru has decided to lean his body against the door, hands behind his back, as he looks down at the genkan for a second. Giving it a tug, he pulls the face mask down, shoving it inside his pocked.

Slowly, he kicks off his shoes, but this time he does not worry about his ritual of neatly organizing the pair beside Hajime’s. He just stares down at it and accepts that things don’t have to be perfect to be right.

The same applies to himself, and God knows that if Iwaizumi is still here it is because he thinks the same. 

He thinks they have a chance.

“I stink.” It’s a safe place to start, Oikawa thinks.

“No shit.” At Iwaizumi’s answer Tooru looks up and for an instant, they just stare at each other. 

It takes but a second for the seriousness of the situation to come to the surface. 

It’s carved at the thin line of Iwaizumi’s lips, at the way his eyebrows arch slightly as if he is trying to school his face into a more controlled facet of what he truly feels. Like he wants to give Oikawa the chance to organize himself before they start _this_.

It’s a display of every argument they ever had, where Tooru knows Iwaizumi has felt the need to be the pillar he could lean on. It’s so unbearably chivalrous of him and devoted that every knot of the intricate embroidery of anguish he has constructed over the last year comes undone.

He only notices the tears as Hajime’s figure becomes blurred, and when he does it topples him like a tidal wave. The amalgamation of his feelings, the need to not be the one being supported but to support as well, because Oikawa is more than capable to do so.

He wants to support Hajime.

Yet, for some reason, he has failed at it.

The echoes of the other’s footsteps over the wooden floor give him the clarity needed to recover some control over his limbs and stretch his arm out, keeping Hajime from getting closer. 

Still, his fingers close and twist at his shirt. 

“ _I am sorry_.” Tooru starts, small despite the power his body holds. “I never wanted us to fall apart, _I don’t want us to fall apart.”_

There’s a beat.

For an instante, the only sound Oikawa can properly hear is his heart, hammering against his ribcage, and then the downpour of clarity at Hajime’s clear and attentive tone. 

“ _Then we won’t_.” And to mark the promise embedded in his words, Hajime’s hand settles over Oikawa’s, thumb caressing it softly as it always does. 

It’s the most familiar of touches, the most obvious display of affection that they have experienced since kids, in moments of solitude or distress. To think that he was about to not have it anymore makes Tooru tremble and finally step forward. 

His face ends up at the crook of Hajime’s neck and, with a little ‘oof’ for having a pile of muscles suddenly thrown over him, the athletic trainer circles his body and holds him there. 

It's disgusting.

Tooru’s hair is plastered with sweaty at his neck and forehead, his clothes almost drenched for the same reason, but still, he feels fingertips running gently at his scalp, moving purposefully slowly as Tooru shakes and finally allows himself a moment of raw honesty, a moment of release.

Still, he feels kisses being placed gently at his temple, and right below his ear, sparkles of heat blooming under his skin and his heart. 

Hajime is so unbearably soft and careful with him that he can’t stop crying. 

It lasts for a while longer until those capable calloused hands come to settle against his neck, Iwaizumi’s thumbs under his chin forcing it up, until he can’t see the mess of snot and tears that is Tooru’s face. 

Oikawa can’t help but grimace, lips trembling slightly as the most beautiful smile, soft and unabashed, finds refuge in Hajime’s lips — as if he needs any more trouble breathing. 

  
  


“Aren’t you an ugly crier?” Hajime says, carefully sliding his thumbs now across Tooru’s glistening cheeks, gently over the tender skin. “Come on, Stinkykawa. You need a bath.” 

“But we—”

“We can talk after it.” Iwaizumi reassures him, seriousness crossing his juniper eyes.

They are not gonna dismiss this anymore, it’s what they tell him. So when Tooru follows him, is with the certainty that they are gonna try as a blanket. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Hajime decided to rent this apartment, the bathroom was the reason. There is nothing particularly flashy about the design of the rest of the rooms, all following the japanese pattern of prioritizing practicality and maximizing the use of space. 

All rooms, except the bathroom.

It is larger than average and the tub, usually more of an aesthetic than an actual usable item in most apartments, is actually capable of holding someone of his size. Maybe even, and more importantly, someone of his size and another someone _minimally_ taller. 

He is particularly grateful for his choice now. 

Oikawa is a lumped form, draped over his back at the moment, which doesn’t surprise Hajime in the least. Since they were kids, any amount of crying from Oikawa meant nap sessions later.

It doesn’t bother him as he busies himself with enjoying the silence while the bathtub fills up way more than pervading it with empty words. The moment offers a much needed tranquility, focusing on the soothing sound of water conjoined by the sensation of the man breathing against his back.

While they wait, sitting on the floor Hajime plays with Oikawa’s lithe fingers, until then secured around his middle. He analyzes the perfectly polished nails and manicured cuticles, the calluses on the fingertips and on his palm from gripping, spiking and setting the ball. 

He contemplates kissing each one. 

He chooses to sigh instead, tired eyes trained at the level of the water as it reaches the intended mark.

“Come on, now. You are not a sloth.” He murmurs, moving on his knees so Oikawa will disentangle himself from him.

If anything is a telltale of the unusual situation they are in is the lack of complaints usually made by the other as Tooru gets up and just does as he was told. 

In a second, Oikawa is inside the tub, his back to Hajime as he soaks and washes himself with a sponge that Iwaizumi passed to him, liquid soap already in it. 

Iwaizumi contemplates leaving and giving him a moment alone but decides against it as he focuses his eyes on the bird’s nest that is Tooru’s hair right now. 

“Wet your hair.” He tells him instead, and despite the questioning look Tooru gives him over the shoulder, he once again does as he is told.

Iwaizumi occupies his hands with lathering the silky strands with shampoo. The glide of them over the scalp is unrushed, massaging it as he brings his thumb down, pressing on a continuous line that finishes at Tooru’s nape, a shaky breath the only sound that indicates Tooru’s appreciation.

It's good.

Until he sees Oikawa hugging his legs, his forehead soon leaning on his knees, a tremor shaking his body. Iwaizumi does the movements again and it happens again, no detective skills need to conclude what is happening. 

“You are such a cry baby.” he accuses, but his expression is mellow and he starts to press his finger at the sides of the other’s neck. 

“ _I am sorry,_ ” Tooru mutters, hands going to rub at his eyes. “I just… I am _really sorry_ , for _everything_.” 

With parted lips, Iwaizumi stops. There’s a small sigh that escapes his mouth, heavy with the implication the words carry and the piled-up stress from which his body is not completely free. 

But most of all, what he feels is relief. 

It feels like a big stride in the right direction. 

“Can you turn around? And you can rinse your hair now, Tooru.” Patiently, he waits for Oikawa to move around. When he is done and they can see eye to eye, Iwaizumi sighs again. “I know you are sorry. Thank you, though… For saying so.”

For a second, silence stretches. 

“I was _scared_ ,” Tooru confesses, and Iwaizumi finds himself leaning forward to listen as it comes out like a whisper. “I was… Upset that you didn’t think what we have is meaningful. I _know_ you don’t think that,” he adds, quickly. “I know it was not about that. But I just felt upset and… Scared of losing you.”

As he speaks, Hajime watches with unbidden awe the tears that form on Oikawa’s eyes. He watches the way his lips move, the way that the droplets of water that come from his wet hair slide down the perfect outline of his face.

He searches and finds truth in every corner, finds his love expanding on his chest and reaching every extremity, growing even out of himself.

It spreads through the tiles and every inch of the room. It reaches for Tooru’s because now he feels like _this is enough_.

He feels like what they are doing is real again.

Hajime is not fighting the tides of frustration alone. Instead, they are on opposite ends of the same bridge, finding solace in knowing that they can meet in the middle and wait together for the storm to pass. 

“ _I am sorry too._ ” The words tip over and Hajime’s body follows.

He reaches his hands out to once again take hold of the Oikawa’s face, gently tracing his high cheekbones as he leans in, close enough that their eyes can’t escape each other.

“I shouldn’t have waited for you to take a step. I should’ve tried harder for what I wanted in the first place, but I just… Got drafted I guess. _I think I was scared too_.”

  
  


And for a second, Oikawa seems dumbfounded.

It’s like for him reconciling the image of Hajime and the sentiment of being scared is something hard to process. His gaze is so piercing that Iwaizumi feels warmth rise to his cheeks, heart beating a little bit faster. 

Being vulnerable doesn’t come this easily to him. 

  
  


In the end, Oikawa lets out a soft chuckle that brings Hajime back and soon his hand is over Iwaizumi’s face too. It caresses his cheek for a second before settling at the sides of his neck reassuringly. 

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan. And you don’t need to be scared. _I am right here_.” He says, and Hajime sighs.

When they were kids, Iwaizumi had always been the one most scared of the dark and those exact words would always leave Tooru’s lips. Just after hearing them would he be able to sleep. 

It’s incredibly healing hearing it again now.

“Cool.” Hajime says, all warm cheeks, gaze equally warm. “Just so we are extremely clear, I want you to be my boyfriend. _Only mine_.” He confesses, swallowing thickly.

For some reason, it feels particularly lame of a request to be made after so many years, but it’s a gift to see Oikawa’s face warming up nevertheless, the freckles over the bridge of his nose becoming more apparent with the reddish tone that blooms over the skin. 

“ _I want that too_.”

And just like this, at the cusp of January, their breakage starts to be filled with powdered gold. 

It’s not perfect yet, but as Hajime smiles, pearly whites on display as kisses a giggle away from Oikawa’s mouth, he can’t help but think that all it matters is that it works for them. 

He joins Oikawa in the bathtub without the gnaw of guilt at his stomach anymore, allowing Tooru to wash his hair for him too. Soon, his long fingers are ripping sighs from Hajime’s mouth as his hands wander through a well-known body, in the search of translating every ounce of affection with action. 

Hajime doesn’t mind the positively disgusting color of the water when they are done, nor does he care for searching for a towel when the glide of their bodies together is slippery and perfect as it is.

He doesn’t mind because he is busy kissing the bridge of Oikawa’s nose, the button tip as he holds and caresses the sides of his strong and lean body. 

He doesn’t mind because every little whisper and breathy moan turns into a giggle or a smile against each other’s flesh as they stumble their ways to the room. 

He doesn’t mind it because as he traces the constellations of Oikawa’s back with his lips moments later all he hears is his own name, repeated in wanton moans as his lubed fingers open the way to the tight and perfect inferno that is his body.

He doesn’t mind because when he holds Tooru’s wrists against his back as he stretches him with three fingers his _boyfriend’s_ voice cracks just right. Iwaizumi moans too before kissing the fingertips of it finger while still holding him down, sucking the ring finger of his left hand and feeling Oikawa squirm beneath him. 

Carefully he eases out of him, letting Tooru turn himself around before Hajime can splay his hands over his thighs. He settles comfortably between them, enjoying the perfect pressure they apply to the sides of his hips before his left hand takes hold of Oikawa’s chin so he can stare at him as he sinks in.

It’s excruciatingly good. 

They both groan when their bodies connect, just on the right side of pain as Hajime creates a rhythm with every roll of his hips.

“ _You’re mine_.” He mutters, possessive as he presses down more intently and watches every minimal wave of pleasure dance on Oikawa’s features. “ _And I am fucking yours._ ”

“ _Fuck_.” Oikawa chokes out, grabbing at him, scratching at his sides as Iwaizumi fucks him slow and deep, biting at the juncture of the athletic trainer's shoulder and neck, making Hajime groan.

“ _Fuck_.” He repeats, desperate and perfect as Hajime reaches particularly deep, thrusting against the most sensitive places of his body, making Tooru feel like a stretched band, seconds from snapping. 

When he does, the coiled heat in his lower belly turns into a supernova behind his eyelids, Hajime is right there with him. He bares his teeth to sink them at Tooru’s neck as he grabs a chunk of his chestnut hair and pulls, groaning hotly over Oikawa’s quivering lips.

When Iwaizumi can finally open his eyes, his breathing coming out in short stutters from the best kind of exertion, the sunlight filtering through the blinds of his window make Oikawa’s hair look like it was kissed by fire. 

Hajime lets himself burn by kissing him again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I cannot believe you are doing this.”

“So you say.” Hajime mutters, but it’s the seventh time Tooru is repeating it, so it’s the seventh time he chooses to ignore. 

“What are you gonna do if you have to get up?!” He grumbles beside him, fussing with Hajime’s tie for the tenth time, even though Iwaizumi knows it’s perfectly aligned because yes, he knows how to do it, thank you very much. 

“I just went to the bathroom, so how about you quit worrying about my bladder and focus on what we have to do?” It’s a suggestion he makes with a smirk, and it’s one Oikawa takes scrunching up his nose. Iwaizumi can help but laugh. 

“It’s not funny, you look stupid!” Tooru says, tapping at Hajime’s leg, being ignored again because all Iwaizumi does is lean in and kiss at his cheek, making the most obnoxious sound as he does so.

“You always look stupid, you don’t see me all over your balls about it.” To the positively affronted look of Oikawa’s face, Hajime laughs again. 

He is not worried, though.

As the quarantine and the worldwide situation got painstakingly serious Oikawa’s sister did what Oikawa’s family does best: she adapted. Instead of the small intimal get-together, they settled for a zoom ceremony three weeks after the original date.

With things in Argentina being held on pause as well, especially with the national team, it was not a problem for Tooru to stay and be “present”. So obviously, Oikawa and Hajime complied, announcing that they both would attend it, as a couple, virtually. 

So in a matter of seconds Akane, Tooru’s sister, starts to read her vows to her husband at the screen of their notebook and Oikawa’s complaints about his attire are momentarily forgotten. He holds Tooru’s hand over his leg, then.

Granted, he does look ridiculous. 

With a button-down shirt, a tie, and his suit jacket on the top, knowing it was the only thing people would see through the zoom camera, he thought it was a waste of time and a bother to change his sweatpants for proper slacks, so he didn’t. It obviously drove Tooru, who was wearing a three-piece suit for the online event, positively mad. 

Maybe it’s why he decided to do so in the first place, but Hajime took the executive decision of keeping this to himself.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. 

What matters is that beside him, Tooru wears his most affectionate expression as his strong older sister breaks into tears and giggles as she finishes reading her vows to her equally crying husband as they celebrate ten years together.

What matters is that he doesn’t have to feel self-conscious or worried that Tooru will feel discomfort as he decides to lean and kiss his cheek one more time as he notices his stupidly silly boyfriend close to tears as well.

What matters is that when the ceremony is over and they turn his laptop down, Iwaizumi Hajime is absolutely sure of all the things he wants for his future — all of them include Oikawa Tooru. 

“That was so cool, wasn’t it?” Tooru asks, rubbing at his eyes a bit, the grumbling coming from his tummy in the next second the least attractive indicator that it’s time for them to have dinner. 

None of them bats an eyelash.

Hajime wants to smother him with love an awful lot.

“Yeah.” he agrees, then after a bit: “Marry me.” 

A second passes, and another.

Oikawa blinks. 

Hajime does nothing but smile, boyish and as silly as he has ever allowed himself to be. 

“What the fuck?!” Tooru says, bewildered and suddenly red as there’s no joke made, but only seriousness and kindness at Hajime’s green eyes. “You can’t just spring that at me like that?!?! What the fuck?! Do you even have a ring?!” He grabs on Hajime’s shoulder and shakes it slightly, panicky and ungraceful.

Hajime loves him just so.

He just knows Oikawa’s hands are sweaty, but Iwaizumi grabs them with his just the same.

“Course I do, it’s somewhere in my drawer.” He dries Oikawa’s hands with one of the tips of his jacket, then he intertwines their fingers again. “And I can spring whatever shit I want in you. It's my house. Not that it’s gonna change when we move to Argentina.”

Hajime can’t help his amusement when he notices understanding downing on Oikawa’s face. Surprise that turn into happiness, the sweet flash of elation in his eyes that make them shine just so; that makes Hajime feel ready to drown in ichor and the absurd amount of love he feels for the man beside him. 

Iwaizumi Hajime is absolutely sure of all the things he wants for his future, all of them include Oikawa Tooru.

This is just the first of them.

“What do you say?” He questions and his voice waivers a bit because it always will when Tooru gets close to him like this, rests his forehead against his like this, raises a hand to touch his hand like this. 

Looks at him like this — with gold in his eyes, hope and devotion. 

“ _Yes_.”

Hajime can’t wait to look at him just the same way until the rest of his days. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> so i hope everyone survived this wild ride and i would love to hear your thoughts!!! kudos and comments make me happy, but so does yelling on twitter so feel free to reach out if you’d like! i am kenmaniacc there too!  
> the lack of Iwaizumi’s pants at the end was written for nothing else but my own satisfaction. 
> 
> THANK YOU!!!!


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